Last Kiss
by thirteen-forty-two
Summary: You'd be surprised just how far a heartbreak can go...


**Oh good lord this took wayyyyyy too long to write.**

**I hope it was worth it. x_x**

_

* * *

_

I still remember the look on your face

_Been through the darkness at 1:58  
__The words that you whispered for just us to know  
__You told me you loved me so why did you go... away, go away_

* * *

"Why? Why are you doing this?" I pleaded with him, feeling my knees quiver like gelatin in response to his hot breath over my ear. "How do you expect me to keep going without you?"

Rivulets of tears streamed down from my eyes. I felt like I had taken a wrecking ball to the chest. It hurt to be alive while feeling so dead. It hurt… existing just to be shattered. Any moment now, the floor was going to crumble beneath me. Any moment, the silver cuts of moonlight peaking through the blinds, giving his face an ethereal glow, would disappear, allowing permanent shadow to bleed over our final moments.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, ashamed for what he was destroying; yet so confident in his decision. "It's something I have to do."

We were nearing two o'clock in the morning, telling me I hadn't stopped my indignant begging for seven hours and thirty-two minutes. Heart in my throat, I attempted to retract myself from his indestructible grip in hopes I would fall out of a nightmare and into the reality that should have been.

He only pulled me closer.

"No… you don't," my weeping began to turn to a muffled sob with my face buried in his shoulder. "I know it's all wrong. But we can fix this. You can stay. Or… I'll go with you! Anything! Just… just don't… leave. Don't leave me."

"I'm sorry," he apologized for the umpteenth time. "You know your place is here. Mine never was."

Could I help being selfish? "My place! You get to run away, but what about me? What am I supposed to do without you? You keep going with all of this crap about you, but what about me?"

A deep sigh escaped him. He thought he was doing something good for the both of us. He thought it would only hurt for a little while before we moved on. He didn't realize what he was doing. Better for him. The death of me. "You'll find someone new… someone better who won't run out on you; who can always be strong for you."

Ironic that the strongest person in Japan could say such a stupid thing and mean it. But it was his idiotic honesty that grabbed me in the first place. It's what I both loved and loathed about him. Everything was on the surface, laid out so simply that it threw off the over-thinkers, and the analytic cynics like me, while always encouraging me to dig for more. I always felt like he was keeping some earthmoving secret from me. It drove me mad that he never was; that a creature so simple was so obnoxiously intriguing. For a masochistic control freak such as myself, he was an addiction.

He never held it within himself how much he hated it here. Even when he was smiling, he was always looking for an escape to freedom… to peace.

Scoffing, I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand, trying to refuse eye contact, despite feeling those amber spheres diving into mine. "Better? Is that really what you think I want?"

As he took a step back, his arms slid out of my hands, breaking our connection at the fingertips. "Maybe not now, but you will."

My stomach tightened with nausea, wondering how he could be so blind. How did he not think this would end me?

Falling back against the wall, I stared at the full moon through the window – the only witness to our tragedy.

From my peripheral vision, I saw him stoop down and hang his bag over his shoulder. He watched me for a moment longer before trapping me between himself and the wall. Taking my face into one strong hand, he forced my empty gaze to meet his.

"It may not be much help now," he said, "But do know that I love you."

With no choice but to let him go, my knees gave out. I crumpled to the floor watching him leave. He never looked back.

* * *

_I do recall now the smell of the rain,  
__Fresh on the pavement,  
__I ran off the plane,  
__That July 9th the beat of your heart,  
__It jumps through your shirt I can still feel your arms._

* * *

Something to know about flight attendants: they like order. But that's because they don't understand the chaos between two lovers split by distance the way they should. Pushing through the crowded aisles, and leaping off the plane, I dashed away before I could hear their complaints about a rude "kid" break the airline's safety protocol. I didn't have time for them.

Summer had rolled in all too slowly. Since the day of his departure, I had counted on this day for an excruciating six months, struggling to survive from one day to the next. Fighting through falling apart, I barely made it. And I'm not too proud (anymore) to admit that it was not without heavy tears and heartache that I made it here.

Bittersweet was our reunion outside of my terminal at LAX. Why he chose California, I'll never know. Maybe it was the sunlight, or the beautiful girls. But I couldn't figure out what it had to offer that Japan didn't… That I didn't.

While it wasn't the cliché Hollywood scene I'd played over and over in my head – the kind where the lovers' eyes meet and it takes all of two seconds for her to drop her bags and jump into his arms – I was given a moment I wouldn't trade for the world.

Time stopped before my eyes. All of my preparations – all of the words I thought I would say – evaporated from my mind. My mouth went dry.

God… just to see him again.

His messy blond hair, wet from the downpour outside, clung to his sharp face, adding emphasis to goldenrod irises. His white collared shirt was freckled by the rain, and his blue jeans – perfectly fitting to his long form – were soaked past his ankles from dragging on the pavement. In his hand he held on to a pack of cigarettes and a pair of cobalt sunglasses, looking entirely different but exactly the same as the man I knew back home.

Adjusting my bag over my shoulder, I approached him slowly, fearing that at any moment, I would wake from this dream with the same startling jolt which insisted on plaguing my sleep nearly every night. But before I could prepare myself enough, I was closing the distance between us. Finally. Finally damning the miles keeping us so far apart. Unexpectedly on both accounts, I dropped my carryon, desperately throwing myself into his arms, allowing him to clumsily fumble the items in his hand when his heart began to slam against the inside of his ribcage, just below the spot I chose to rest my head.

Tears of relief, heartbreak, sadness, and joy tore through me like a tsunami the moment he coiled his arms around my shoulders. For all the time he'd been gone, I was the one who felt like I was coming home. So I cried. I cried a tear for every moment lost. And I cried knowing that this relief would be over in moments; knowing this reunion was never intended to last.

For his sake alone, I prayed California was worth what he'd given up, because I only had a weekend to absorb all the love I could.

* * *

_But now I'll go sit on the floor wearing your clothes,  
__All that I know is I don't know,  
__How to be something you miss.  
__Never thought we'd have a last kiss  
__Never imagined we'd end like this  
__Your name forever the name on my lips_

* * *

As much I love him, I hate his temper.

Once upon a time, I loved it. I loved the things he did to me whilst enraged, like his fingernails digging into my back, or his teeth sunken into my shoulder, drawing blood. Hell, I even loved his hands around my throat back before I knew how to name this sentiment.

He was a breath of fresh air. A break away from the constant. A dangerous and enthralling specimen who made the blood rush to my head. The only one unaffected by my games. The only one I couldn't control. I suppose I should have known from the beginning that I couldn't hold on to him forever. And whether he knows it or not, he is still holding on to me.

Currently, I sit on the floor in our room, wearing a sweater and jeans he left behind while I reminisce and consider the way things should be. I don't know how many bottles I've been through this week, just trying to dull the pain. Thank you, overpriced imported vodka.

We had gotten into a fight the evening before I left, undoubtedly snapping the final threads holding our relationship together.

Trying to drink myself into a coma has done at least one good favor for me - I can't even remember what we were arguing about. Something stupid, I'm sure. I can only see the fading bruise around my wrist as a reminder. Is it wrong that I don't want it to go away? Is it bad of me to want to keep this mark burned into my skin just so I may feel attached to what I've lost?

I suppose it's a good thing to have blocked out my memories. Nevertheless, that won't stop me from replaying our last five minutes in my head.

My flight was about to take off. In fact, I wanted it to leave without me.

Still holding on to our firm beliefs – or lack thereof – neither of us would sway toward an apology for a spat potentially responsible for our destruction.

Shyly, I pulled my long sleeves over my hands, hiding the red and purple spot I've since become attached to. I could see his guilt in hurting me, but not for what he believed to be right. For once, I wish I could have been a little less stubborn. I can't help but think it would have saved us.

"I guess this is goodbye… again…" I muttered, staring at my plane ticket.

"Yeah…" he shuffled his feet.

"Will I ever see you again?" I dared to wonder aloud. "Will anyone ever see you?"

"Damn it, flea," he growled between his teeth, "I told you… I'm better here. You need to just forget me."

"If I was meant to forget you, why would you have me come here?" I shot back in retaliation for his misplaced logic.

Aggravated, he shook his head eagerly. "Don't go making things more complicated. I fucking hate that."

"You're just as guilty as I am."

"It was a mistake, Izaya."

The way he said my name sent a railroad spike through my heart, as he was still unmoved by his own shameful depravity. There is no remorse for the way he has broken me. I am now torn between feeling his love was a lie, and sensing that he lied to himself when he said those cruel words. Because… how could anybody throw away three and a half years? How could anybody hold so much resentment toward themselves that they could so easily walk out on another? Did it take strength or weakness to leave their love shattered on the bedroom floor?

A fresh onslaught of tears pricked at my eyes like a thousand microscopic needles.

As if to apologize for the agony he caused my cracking heart, he pulled me in one last time, pressing his lips into mine with urgency despite American stares of humans - complete strangers - surrounding us. How could they ever understand what I was losing? How could they ever know just what his forceful touch meant to me as he held tightly to my waist, dragging his tongue across my teeth like he used to?

There once was a time when I was the luckiest girl in the world… a time before I left my lover for a plane ride back home, crying all the way back for thirteen hours alone.

In all of my years studying the human race, I've never witnessed pain quite like this.

* * *

_I do remember the swing of your step  
__The life of the party you're showing off again  
__And I roll my eyes and then you pulled me in.  
__I'm not much for dancing,_

_But for you did because…_

* * *

Reaching for a half-empty bottle that somehow managed to roll under the bed, my fingertips trip over a flat, smooth surface. Certainly not the glass I am in need of for my self-medicating, I meet my long-neglected laptop. I can't remember the last time I used the internet, let alone a cell phone.

I've forgotten how to care about the outside world. However, its surprise appearance entices me, and I soon find myself switching it on before I go back to hitting the bottle. My only friend these lonely summer days.

I can't help but hope he misses me, recognizing that California's seasons aren't so lovely as Japan's. Honestly. What's there that isn't here? What could he need across the pond that I couldn't give him? I would have sold him my soul at discount rates had he asked for it.

With the notebook on, I can't help but find myself interested by an icon in the upper right corner. The folder titled "Best Night Ever" prods my curiosity, and I soon find myself double-clicking because I don't think I put this on my desktop.

Within its contents, I am instantaneously opened up to memories which surely suit its title. Small thumbnails are lined up on the screen in order from first to last of that day's events. I begin to melt as soon as the first of two-hundred files opens.

Why does love have to hurt like this?

One after the other, I watch us at a party, surrounded by a variation of misfits who we consider our friends. Shinra had finally convinced Celty to take him as her husband. We were in the wedding.

Without any family of her own they stuck to a westernized style of ceremony, in which she was given away by none other than the one who gave me up. I was Shinra's best man, and Sonohara Anri played Celty's maid of honor. Both wedding and reception were small, but elegant, in which only keepers of the Black Rider's true identity (being that she was just like any other girl in love) were invited.

Tasteful tea lights hung in the ivy surrounding the rooftop garden, adding a golden glow to the creamy whites; complimenting the smooth lavender. Not a human there was underdressed, but not so lovely as the headless bride, either. She had a befuddling way of becoming the center of attention based on a feminine way of carrying herself, and a perfect dress that seemed to flow with her mysterious shadow.

Throughout the night, the only thoughts so selfishly on my mind consisted of how I couldn't wait to be in her place someday soon. All eyes on me for the most important night of my life. And there is only one I would share it with.

He had seen it too.

Shinra stole back his bride from my love as a slow-song began to play. Fond of music, I know I lack rhythm to a beat. It was just like him not to care.

Pulling me away from the bar, sweeping us to the dance floor, he took me in his arms, pressing himself into me. I'll never forget his warmth, radiating from his hands to his eyes. Embarrassed by my two left feet, I did my best to blindly follow his steps with my face buried in his neck.

A sultry chuckle erupted from his throat. "You're not that bad," he whispered, pressing his lips against my hair.

"Don't lie," I scolded him.

"I don't think a parkour master gets to be a bad dancer. Besides. It's a slow dance."

"Tch. Somehow, I make it possible."

Tripping over his shoe, I stumbled backward, afraid to meet the bamboo floor beneath my feet. Instead, he reacted quickly enough to catch me, pulling me back into his arms. Embarrassed, I sheepishly buried my face in his chest.

"Okay. So maybe you're a little bad."

My cheeks went hot. "Shut up."

"Maybe when you stop being so fucking cute."

I'll never forget the whispers twirling around us on the midsummer's evening breeze; saying we would be next to tie a knot that already seemed double-tied to me.

I hate myself for believing them.

* * *

_I loved your handshake meeting my father_

* * *

Obsessed by memories, I soon find myself fascinated by looking for more as I excavate more digital copies from my pictures folder. There's a reason I've abandoned it for the past six months, two weeks, and three days. For every memory that brings me to tears, I choke them back with another swig of vodka. I've been drinking so much I can't taste it anymore. Now I understand what Simon says when he talks about the Russians from his past using it to sleep at night.

Fuck… Christmas two years ago… I don't even… I mean… fuck…

Why this…?

I brought him home to my family for the first time, telling my father he was just a friend to avoid controversy. He understood. Even though his parents are long gone from this world, he knew how I was struggling to tell my dad that his only son was head over heels for another man. We had the same understanding when he told his brother. Though, I'm pretty sure the actor known as Hanejima Yuuhei was more taken aback by who exactly his big brother was with, rather than the fact that he was with a guy.

We weren't ashamed of who we are… were… We were careful; taking things slowly more for the sake of others than ourselves. I'd have worn a neon sign declaring both my love and devotion if he had asked me to.

I still would.

My mother and the twins already knew. The girls were the first to find out when they busted into my old loft one day, catching us in the act of… well… catching me in the act of going down on him. Swearing - for his sake rather than mine - not to tell a soul what they'd seen, they ran to my mother, keeping vague on our wayward behavior, but telling her all the same. I had been mortified only to learn she wasn't surprised. Agreeing to keep my secrets, my mom hadn't passed the message along to Mairu and Kururi - mostly Mairu - to let me "come out" to my dad on my own.

Mairu ratted me out minutes before dinner with an attempt at being sneaky when she asked, "So, Iza-nii, Kururi and I were wondering."

"About…?"

"When you two decide to have kids-"

Midway through her statement, I choked on my drink.

"-are you going to adopt, or use artificial insemination? Because, if you decide on the latter, you're going to have to choose which one of you is the real father, and that can be complicated."

Just as shocked as I was, he gave me a strong pat on the back to ease the liquid out of my airway. Neither of us could answer as I settled my terrified focus on one of the few people I both fear and respect.

Ready for all hell to break loose, I will never forget my dad's deep garnet eyes sizing him up in a single sweep, recognizing him as the same brute from school who I'd come home complaining about because one of our fights landed us in detention - an ugly mark on my record to have next to perfect test scores. More often than not, there were ugly marks on my being, too. Scabs, bruises, stitches, blood matted in my hair. Sometimes a pugnacious collage of them all.

I stare down at my latest bruise, holding it close to my heart like a treasure. It's going to fade soon…

Anyway…

Nodding his head in approval, I remember my father's smirk when he said, "It's about time somebody has come along who can keep Izaya in line."

To which he respectfully replied with a bow, "I do my best, sir."

Laughing heartily together, while a furious blush heated my cheeks, he and my father shook hands, unexpectedly bonding over stories of my sins in no time at all. Everything, from the most embarrassing, to the most proud, while Mairu kept silent for the rest of the night. I don't doubt she felt defeated.

Before we went home, I caught them in a conversation outside when my mother asked me to take care of the garbage. My curiosity forced me to eavesdrop as I rounded the corner, catching them over a smoke.

"How much do you love my son?" my dad asked.

I peeked around the corner, unable to help my own spying. I watched him take a drag from his cigarette and shake his head. "Couldn't put it into words if I tried."

"Then please do your best to take care of him."

He gawked at my father, somewhat taken aback by his request. "I-I will."

"He's so independent… I worry about what would happen if he were to get hurt or ever lose his grip."

"You don't have to worry. I would never let it happen. I promise."

Then why did it, you fucking moron?

All along, I had been afraid for nothing, relieved to know my parents respected my decisions, from those that were most devious and clandestine, to picking the person who ruled my heart. The only thing he was asked to do in exchange for their acceptance was to keep me safe. I never predicted he would be the one to hurt me.

I wish I could go back to the days before I fell so damn hard. I wish I could go back to the times he was after my blood instead of my love. Then, and only then, would this bitter agony cease to exist.

* * *

_I love how you walk with your hands in your pockets_

* * *

In half of these photographs, a cigarette dangles precariously from his tender lips, while he stares into the lens with eyes that remind me of Jupiter. He has these eyes, the kind that always feels like he's looking directly at you, reading your soul, even in the black-and-whites. That ardent gaze is reserved for me. Only me.

His hands are always in his pockets if they're not touching me. Even when there are a million thoughts swarming his mind like frenzied bees, he always carries himself with this almost clueless nonchalance, like the world around him doesn't matter. Nothing exists unless he wants it to. Nothing matters unless he says it does. It's a dominant way of life that puts him in control. Realizing this, I probably pissed him off because I had an obnoxious way of penetrating that veil that kept him in his own universe. Then again, it isn't like I could control him either.

In the end, I believe it was our opposite personalities, and the clumsy way we'd clash, that made us possible… I don't understand why he can't see that.

It was pretty clear from the start.

"The fuck are you doing, Flea?"

"Holding your hand."

"Why?"

"Because… isn't that what couples are supposed to do?"

"I… uh… is it?"

"We've been together for two weeks. And how many times have we had sex?"

"Uh… Like how many days, or how many actual times?"

"Both."

"Fourteen… and… about forty."

"Right. So if you spend every night screwing my brains out, you can hold my hand in the park."

"It feels weird."

Wishing I was one of the cigarettes trapped between those lips, I imagine I know what it feels like to slowly burn out for him… to give him everything I have - all that I am - just to be his. Only his.

Have I been his human cancer stick all this time? Give, give, give, giving him all that I can, not realizing that all of my giving has been killing him too? Have I been adding deadly poisons to his being without realizing what I have done? Is that why he left me? Was I an addiction he had to quit to save his own life?

But…

He said he loves me…

Shit. None of it makes sense.

What did I do to drive him away?

What didn't I do to keep him?

Slamming the laptop shut, I can't look at those eyes anymore. I can't love him for leaving me with nothing more than a memory, and I can't breathe… I cannot breathe through this cold, vehement darkness, alone with his image everywhere I look, while his stupid sweater, long lost of his scent, slips from my shoulder.

Dear God, if you exist after all, please take me away. For my life is meaningless, deprived of reason for carrying on. This world is insipid, bled of all color, without him here. And I don't understand… If he loves me, why did he leave me? If he loves me, why wouldn't he let me follow? I would drop this city in a heartbeat.

I would happily die for one more day.

One more day to run my fingers through his hair. One more day to melt into his aura. To gauchely dance hand-in-hand. To kiss between arduous breaths of ecstasy. To hear him say my name with that gravelly inflection, reminding me that I belong to him. Only him. Forever. Always. One more day to look him in the eyes and tell him I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry I couldn't make you happy. I'm so fucking sorry I couldn't do enough to make you stay.

You are my greatest strength, and my deadly weakness.

I swear on my soul, I will love you - only you - until the sun dies.

* * *

_How you'd kiss me when I was in the middle of saying something.  
__There's not a day I don't miss those rude interruptions and_

* * *

I finish off another bottle and contemplate getting up for another. My limbs feel weighed down by lead. I really don't want to move, so I choose to wait, hoping that by some twist of magic, another will just show up in front of me.

"My love," I mumble through forlorn darkness, "Did you ever feel this empty?"

Choosing to fall over, I lay on my back and stare at the ceiling. A few minutes pass, and the air conditioning kicks in. Soon, I am sucked into another memory as the shift in the air hits my body. It's like he's hovering over me in the form of a ghost, listening to my melancholy thoughts.

Not so long ago, we were here in this spot on the floor after an unfair wrestling match, which had originated on the bed three feet up. The stupid fight came from out of the blue. One moment, I was indulging myself in The Picture of Dorian Gray, with his head on my shoulder and his arm around my waist. He seemed in a daze while I read, eyes half closed, tracing circles on my hip with his fingers. The next, I was on the floor, face up with wide eyes.

Winter was slowly being washed away by the new spring rain. That day was one of those days where life is beautiful, even when nothing is going on. The rain pattered at the window with a relaxing beat. It was a day for quiet thinking, hot tea, and homemade soup. While I was contented to be like this, he was becoming lightly agitated by the rare silence. Wiggling to regain comfort, he rolled away from me, letting out a long sigh.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, without glancing up from my book.

"Bored," he droned, sounding childish as only he could.

I couldn't help but crack a smile.

"When will you be done reading?" he asked, tousling his own hair.

"Let me finish this chapter."

"How much longer?" he pouted.

"I have about four pages," I told him, trying not to lose my focus.

"You've read that book… like… eight times!"

"It's a great book!" I mused.

"I don't get it, Izaya. How do you read so much? You even read in English."

"You'd be able to read in English, too, had you spent more time in class than outside taking a smoke break," I teased, realizing he wasn't going to let me finish those last several pages. I neatly placed my bookmark, setting the novel on the nightstand with my reading glasses neatly placed on top. "Besides, one cannot be expected to read a translated edition, when the original is so -"

Rolling back into me, he interrupted my thoughts - as only he could - taking my face in his hands as he pressed the words back into my mouth with his lips.

"- perfect."

"Like you?" he smirked.

"You are a wolf in sheep's clothing," I playfully smacked him.

Growling with fervor, he nipped at my neck, trailing down, down, down the sensitive area of skin until his teeth sunk into my collar bone. I gasped, unable to resist as I dragged my fingernails up his naked spine. As I tried to push him off, he increased force, pinning my hands over my head, loving my struggle.

"Bastard," I hissed.

And that was all it took for him to wrap his arms around me and roll us onto the floor, where I put up a pathetic fight against his hands exploring my body, and his tongue taking control of my mouth. As always, I melted into him, unashamed as he slipped my pants off my waist, victoriously running his fingers over my bare ass, emitting a shudder from deep within my core. Dazed by lust, a hot flush invaded my cheeks as I gave myself up to him without another complaint. He spent the rest of the afternoon ravishing me with talented lovemaking until we passed out where I now lie.

Easily, it was one of the best days of my life. To feel so loved as I did, swept up in moments irreplaceable by time nor substance. Moments. Memories. They aren't something you simply return or toss because you don't want them anymore.

Unlike the lover, the love doesn't just disappear. It marks you, like an invisible tattoo, for life. A scar.

So how the fuck does he think I'm supposed to move on under these circumstances?

* * *

_I'll go sit on the floor wearing your clothes,  
__All that I know is I don't know, how to be something you miss.  
__Never thought we'd have a last kiss  
__Never imagined we'd end like this  
__Your name forever the name on my lips_

_Ohh_

* * *

Caving into desolation appears to be a new hobby of mine.

No more laughing vivaciously while hunting for information, deeply involving myself in gang wars, or searching for immortality. No more reading novels by authors who remind me of my own life, or cooking a dinner for two. No more bragging about how I have somebody waiting for me at home, or turning down an offer because my boyfriend is "right over there."

But those suicide sites on the internet are beginning to peak my interest yet again. I mean it. They're fucking tempting. And the idea alone… it's just so relieving. I wonder how he would feel if I were to die. I wonder if he would even find out. For the sake of revenge, I would hope so. Would it give him a taste of this poison I call heartbreak? Would he feel half as bad as I feel now?

I think I'm already dead.

A sad, sorry symphony of recollections constantly invades my mind. I can't get him out of my head to save my soul. Even worse, I'm at war trying to decide if I want to forget, or if I want to cling forever. My newfound addiction to clinging to a bottle of alcohol just wants to help me feel better. Right? That's why I'm drinking the pain away. Right?

God damn it. I'm not making sense. Nothing makes sense.

I was never like this before. No. Not at all. I was cold. I was vicious. I was powerful. I was a force to be reckoned with. I could make a grown man's blood run cold with a single glance. I could infect the minds of the ignorant by a word. I could… there was no limit to what I could do.

Ever since he left me, the world has lost order. Each thought is overly complicated, while all of my actions are done by force. I force myself to get up every morning. I force myself to get dressed. I force myself to work. And I force myself not to breakdown every time his name enters my mind. I bet I'll stop breathing soon. I'll run out of memories, and once the repeats are too much to endure, my esophagus will close itself shut so I may suffocate the way I feel like I've been suffocating this entire time.

Cracking open a fresh drink, I slam the refrigerator door shut, feeling a breakdown creep up my spine as I slide to the kitchen floor.

I'm not drunk enough.

He's over several thousand miles away, not missing me… regretting what we had. Probably pretending it never happened. He's already forgotten the desperate sensation of his lips against mine while he surrounds himself with new friends.

I don't think I believe him.

I don't think he loves me.

How can love be a mistake? How can love let you throw away something so strong?

"I wish I could hate you," I say, pretending he is still here while I slam the back of my head into the large, steel icebox, hoping I can give myself enough brain damage to erase him from my life. "I wish I could look you in the eyes and say I never loved you. I wish I could hurt you the way you've hurt me. But more than anything, I wish you were here. And I wish I could truly understand what I did to scare you away."

I sigh before taking a few large gulps of alcohol into my system.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is without you? Do you even care?"

But he couldn't. He couldn't feel what it's like to live for what he has lost. Because he isn't me.

And from so far away, my attempts are all in vain. He ran far enough to lose me. Far enough to ignore his demons so that he may start fresh. So far that there's nothing I'll ever be able to do to make him miss me enough to come home, since - apparently - California has something I don't.

Coward.

I knew that strength was good for nothing. I knew monsters are liars. I knew they can't love.

"And I gave up everything for you," I cry, flinching as tears begin to stream from my eyes. "So why did you leave me all alone?"

It isn't fair.

* * *

_So I'll watch your life in pictures like I used to watch you sleep and  
__I'll feel you forget me like I use to feel you breathe and_

* * *

My legs wobble as I stand. The world takes a moment to stop spinning around me as I fight for balance. I've fallen hard enough. I don't want to fall again.

Momentarily setting the bottle on the countertop, I can't help but brace myself, placing my hand over my heart as a sharp, physical pain goes off like a silent siren. I gasp with widened eyes, afraid to move until it passes.

"Fuck…" I whisper, taking back the vodka. "Where did that come from?"

I move back to the bedroom, tempted to sift through a row of photo albums on my bookshelf, eventually deciding against it as the prints in frames are becoming too much to take. They'll have to come down someday. Maybe moving would be a good idea. I could leave this apartment. I could go back to my old loft in Shinjuku. I could pretend I hate him. And I could go back to business as usual. Last I heard, Shiki-san's current information broker is a sneaky piece of shit who doesn't know what he's doing. He could take me back.

I would be so busy working, I'd somehow forget to unpack all of my boxes. Or I could accidentally on purpose leave a few here. I could lose all of these memories and pretend he never made me love him.

That doesn't sound so bad, does it?

Falling back on the bed, I wonder how my love is dealing with a life so far from everything he has ever known. Even though I'm bitter, I suppose I don't really hope he's suffering, because all I've ever wanted since I realized I loved him was to see him happy. Just because I can't see him… doesn't mean he shouldn't be…

It's just that I'm a selfish piece of garbage, burned by the thought of him forgetting me, clinging to the hope that somehow, he'll hold on to me eternally, never losing how beautiful it was before the misery came crashing down on us.

We were blindsided.

Will he look back on the photographs I slipped into his bag? Or has he already thrown them out? Will he some day forget my name, or will he tell his new friends all about Orihara Izaya - a lover from his past life? Will I matter at all to him in five years? How about ten? Twenty? How long should it take for him to replace me? How many years, months, weeks, days, hours… minutes… seconds… will it take for another to sweep in on his heart, captivating him like I once did? Or should he discover I'm irreplaceable, and be filled with regret a little too late? Will we spend our lives alone, wishing we had tried harder to hold on?

So many questions…

Well, let me tell you something.

For him, it will never be too late. I will never love anybody else quite like I love him. I will never be broken for another the way I have been broken for him.

Those eyes might be Jupiter, but he is my whole god damn universe.

It's killing me not knowing what I am to him. It makes me feel like nothing. Just a sorry waste of space in an already overcrowded world.

"I can't take this," I tell myself, rolling away from the sheets… sheets we picked out together.

Sometimes, I wonder how I get out of bed in the morning. Whether I'm hung over or perfectly sober, is it worth the effort?

Throwing the bottle aside, I stand up, pushing up my sleeves. Making for the front door, the only thing I grab on the way out are my keys.

I have to get the fuck out of here before the silence kills me.

* * *

_I'll keep up with our old friends just to ask them how you are._

* * *

I drunkenly step out onto the streets for the first time since coming home from California. Now that I think about it, why the fuck did he choose California if he can't even read in English.

Idiot.

He was always lacking in logical thinking.

How does he even survive without me?

Walking through the damp streets, I feel a billion pairs of eyes on me, but I don't care. I feel more together inebriated than I do sober, even if the alcohol hasn't lived up to its purpose of granting me temporary numbness.

Fuck…

Everywhere I look there's a memory.

Contemplating whether or not I should turn around before I get too far, the purring of a familiar black motorbike sends a haunting chill through my spine.

Too soon.

Too fucking soon.

Celty pulls up beside me, slowly following as I pretend she doesn't exist. I keep walking, hoping she'll give up eventually. She doesn't, and I'm already thin on patience. Double that by the countless bottles dispersed on my bedroom floor.

"What?" I snap, coming to a halt. Another pang rips through my chest, but I grit my teeth through the discomfort, and look at her as if she has eyes for me to stare into.

She types me a message in her usual manner: [_You look terrible_.]

I roll my eyes, stumbling a bit as I turn. What the hell was she expecting?

And she appears a bit startled as she hurriedly types something else. [_Are you drunk_!]

"Tch. What's it to you?" I hiss, making an attempt to cross the street.

She rolls her motorcycle in front of me, blocking my path. For a moment, I stare at my reflection in her helmet. I hate it when other people are right. I look horrible… with the hollow eyes of a man who has lost everything.

Looking as empty as I feel, I slump my shoulders, stuffing my hands into my pockets - his pockets. His jeans. "I'm sorry," I mumble. "I just… I can't…"

I can't get the proper words off my chest.

[_You miss him_.]

"Shit. There's no hiding that, is there?"

She shakes her helmet. I apologize for snapping, and we continue on a pointless journey to nowhere in particular. Trying to clear my head, I know she and I are going to have a real conversation about him eventually.

Ugh. My chest hurts.

After a good forty minutes pass, we stop in front of Russian Sushi where Simon is doing his usual business of passing out fliers. He looks at me for a long while. I stare back, but say nothing. He and Celty swiftly nod at one another before the two of us continue. His Russian proverbs have no value here.

"So how's your husband?" I finally ask, feeling that I have to say something or this strange pain will become obvious.

We stop in the park, choosing a nearby bench to take a break.

[_Busy. Shiki-san has been around a lot recently_.]

"Figures," I scoff, rubbing my eyes, "His new informant is a joke."

[_Maybe you should go back to work for him. It would take your mind away from… things_.]

"HA! Funny you should bring that up. I was just thinking about it earlier," I bitterly chuckle.

Moving between the street and the sun, a fresh black rain cloud rolls in, putting a bleaker aura on the mood than necessary.

"Ne, Celty?"

She rests her hand on my shoulder, knowing where I'm headed.

"You're still his best friend, aren't you?"

She nods.

"How is he…?"

She spends a few moments thinking.

[_Last I heard, he says he is doing well. He has a new job at a bar making good money_.]

"Well… that's good, I suppose…"

[_He mentioned you_.]

My heart begins to race against pain and brokenness. "What did he say?"

[_He's sorry for the way things ended_.]

* * *

Hope it's nice where you are and  
I hope the sun shines and it's a beautiful day and  
Something reminds you,  
You wish you had stayed

* * *

In my mind, I can go over a list of things he likes, from activities to material possessions, never once stopping to ask myself why it matters. Maybe it's just to prove to myself that nobody loves him quite like I do, especially if I can memorize his favorites. For instance, he has an affinity for sweets of all kinds, and a particular love taste for vanilla milkshakes and cake. If it were up to him, the sun would shine nonstop, year round. His favorite color is blue because it's innocent. And even though he's a bartender, he prefers the sugary, girly drinks to an ice cold draft. He likes to smoke American Spirits, and drink canned coffee, often buying them from vending machines, which he's also fond of.

He enjoys the simpler things in life, not needing to live a luxurious lifestyle to be happy. Money was never an object; nor was it a challenge. I moved into a smaller apartment than what I can afford due to his insistence on our life being perfect kept simple.

Far from me, does he miss these things at all? Or are they more enjoyable without me in the picture?

Does the warmth of his new sun soak into his heart like his touch sank into mine? Does it make him think of me? Is he reminded by the gentle caresses we'd trade while laying in the fluffy emerald grass at the park?

I hope that - wherever he finds himself today - he is caught up in moments reminding him of what we could have been had he chosen to stay. I hope that his world isn't clouded in the same thick darkness I see… the same darkness ripping the air from my lungs.

Darkness stealing my vision.

Darkness stealing my heart… stealing my soul… stealing absolutely every palpable substance binding me to this earth… enveloping me in the coldest… loneliest… most terrifying void…

And I…

I…

My chest hurts.

It fucking hurts as glaring white light invades my vision, burning my eyes. Instant fucking migraine.

Adjusting to an unforeseen change, I find myself on my back, breathing heavily as I focus on the ceiling above my head. What happened? How did I get here? I haven't been here - like this - since… fuck. Has it been that long?

UGH! What is this pain?

Weak and weighed down, I reach to place my hand over my aching heart when I'm stopped by a set of long fingertips wrapping themselves around my green and yellow wrist. A shudder ripples through my body, agitating my nerves.

Soon, my stunned gaze is met by piercing eyes, deep set and commanding.

"Don't panic," he says. "You're hanging in there."

But I'm not panicked at all. In fact, I'm unusually calm given the circumstances, like I knew I'd end up here sooner or later. It was all a matter of playing the waiting game. I expected this…

With my free hand, I reach for what I can only assume is an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. Pulling it down, I attempt to speak - to say his name. "Sh… Shi…" but the air feels thick in my lungs, almost sticky, resulting in a coughing fit from hell.

It burns. It really burns.

"Tsk. Just breathe," he whispers, releasing my wrist to place the mask back in place.

My wheezing breaths subside for now. All I can do is stare at him, wondering why - of all people - he's here with me now. I glance down at his arm, crinkling my eyebrows. It's in a sling. Worry takes over.

He shrugs. "Shoot out. It's that new piece of shit I hired who's to blame… dead shit now."

Staring at Shiki-san for a while longer, I finally close my eyes, unsure of what there would be to say if I could speak properly. Quick to realize this, he reads me, and continues to speak for both of us.

"I'll be fine soon enough," he tells me. "My concern for the time being is you, Orihara-san."

Trying my best not to roll my eyes, I stare past the open door where I've seen a flash of white flit by several times now. Somewhere between the sixth and tenth, Shinra stops, sighs, and begins to speak. He sounds more rushed than usual, looking a bit frazzled.

"He's been like this since you showed up," the Awakusu-Kai executive explains to me. "He just keeps calling, and calling."

Calling? What does that mean?

"Damn it! Where have you been?" Shinra shrieks from the hall, shouting into the mouthpiece of his cell phone. I am slightly startled by the noise. "Califo-right… I'm sorry. Time zones… You know I wouldn't call if it weren't an emergency… I know! I know… It's… It's Izaya…"

Realization of who is on the other end of that call strikes me hard in my pain-filled heart. Feeling my body begin to break down at the very thought, my breathing becomes shallow. I have to focus. I have to concentrate on anything else. Anything to save me from this, because… I don't know if I can survive knowing that it's so fucking easy for somebody else to hear that voice while I'm left with nothing more than uncomfortable dreams and photographs.

Tears forcefully blur my vision. I do everything I can not to listen to the doctor's end of the phone call, while Shiki-san takes my hand, failing to convince me that everything is alright.

Everything is wrong. Fucked up and wrong.

"He's in bad shape… I know. Until it reaches this extent, there's really no way to tell… He is… No, but there's only so much I can do… Yes… If he had been home, instead of with Celty, he would be dead by now… Yes… You're not listening to me… NO! God damn it…. You don't understand at all… He… Don't… Fine… but if this issue escalates, I… I don't think I could ever forgive you."

Shinra lets out a deep sigh as he plucks off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He enters the room, giving Shiki one of those knowing nods. Reciprocating the silent gesture, the executive's hand releases mine, he stands, and exits after giving me a particularly warm look for his character.

Again, pulling down the mask, I attempt to speak, finding a bit more luck this time. "S-scale of one t-to ten?" I wheeze.

"Ten being the best?" the doctor arches an eyebrow.

I nod.

"Two." Lacking either joking in his tone, or a usual glint of confidence in his eyes, I see that Shinra means what he says. "How do you feel?"

Holding up my right middle finger with intended sarcasm, I denote the number one as my current status, unable to believe that I'm here. I don't even know how. Alcohol poisoning maybe? Or am I suffering a slight case of amnesia? The idea of losing my memory puts an unwelcome knot in my stomach. To forget would be a real big "fuck you" to all that I've suffered for.

"Thought you might say that," Shinra innocently frowns, scratching his head.

"Ngh… W-what hap… happened?"

"Izaya…" he pauses for a moment that makes me feel like time has stopped, "Have you ever heard of Broken Heart Syndrome?"

* * *

_We can plan for a change in weather and time,  
__But I never planned on you changing your mind._

* * *

Automatically, I shake my head. I can't think at all. My brain feels numb, like my entire ability to feel anything at all has rushed to my chest.

"It's nearly impossible to diagnose without taking a deeper look," he explains, taking a seat in the chair where Shiki-san had just been. "On the surface, it looks like a heart attack."

Oh?

"But physically healthy twenty-three-year-olds don't have heart attacks."

"G-get to the point…" I shoot him a filthy look, hating the way he beats around the bush. He's so evasive when it comes to getting serious. Fucking obnoxious.

"Sorry, sorry… basically, your stress level has maxed out, causing a weakening in your heart. It's called cardiomyopathy. It's mostly common in women who have faced extreme emotional turmoil, resulting in rapid weakness of the muscle when it pumps more fluids, such as adrenaline, than blood."

"Ah…"

"How long have you been experiencing chest pains?"

I think, trying to remember when it all began. What's the point? No matter what, I keep circling my thoughts back to the scene where love left me cold and alone. You want to know how long it has been hurting me, Shinra? This whole fucking time. It hurts. Nonstop. Everyday. For six and a half months.

"Th-this… morning."

Melancholic eyes flooded with honest concern, colored like the Pacific, stare into mine. He shakes his head in a way I cannot read. Resentment maybe? "You didn't have a heart attack, so there's no worrying that you'll end up with a blood clot. But I worry that it will happen again."

"S-so let me die."

"You shouldn't say things like that, Izaya. You nearly did. I'm keeping you here until this thing is under control."

He's speaking so rapidly I can barely keep up. I feel like he'll never slow down… like all I'm going to hear for the rest of my life is his voice. Well, I don't want Shinra. I want…

"I'm worried about you."

"Tch… why?"

"You haven't been the same since he left. Then this happens…? You're not over him, are you?"

Feeling like hot steel rod has pierced through my chest, I close my eyes, trying my damnedest to will away the pain. I can accept my own weaknesses. On the other hand, to be called out on them… over him… like this…

"I'm sorry…" Shinra mutters. "I shouldn't ask questions I already know the answer to…"

Coughing, I wish the tears wouldn't burn my eyes in front of another human being. I always thought I was stronger than this… better… Now, I'm finding he was my strength… that everything we were was my power… my confidence. He was my reason… for everything.

"Y-you spoke to him…"

"I did."

"Why?"

Shinra's harmless frown deepens. "He needed to know."

"Tch… he d-doesn't deserve to."

"Like hell he doesn't! You don't just leave the one you love."

"If he loved me… If it mattered to him, he… he would still be here," I leer. "What d-does it matter… to him if I d-die."

"If he was still here, I don't think this would have happened to you," he shakes his head, and for a moment, I swear I can see loathing in his eyes. "Hell, maybe it doesn't matter, Izaya, but you're the spiteful type, aren't you? Shouldn't you - of all people - want to push the nightmare back on him in the form of guilt?"

I choose not to argue with his logic. The doctor's diagnosis is right, as usual. He knows me well. I am exhausted. This pain is out of control. And if I hear another word about the one who left me, I may actually die from this so-called Broken Heart Syndrome that I am forced with.

The truth of the matter is that I am a vindictive, devious, arrogant piece of crap. An overpaid lowlife, to say the least. And if it were anyone else… anyone at all… I'd spend the rest of my life out to get them… because they aren't… him. Because, while I love human beings, there is only one who I am in love with, and despite all that I am, I could never hurt him with the type of tool I would hurt a stranger, or an enemy with. I couldn't… because he's so much more than that.

Vengeance? I see him in my thoughts. He is entirely incompatible with the word. Maybe long, long ago before he quite literally swept me off my feet.

"H-he's not coming back. He… he doesn't w-want me anymore."

Silence fills my eardrums, as Shinra does not respond to my firm sense of denial that a selfish lover lost does not simply return over a broken heart. That shit exists in fairytales… which I stopped believing in a long fucking time ago. Yet I can't help the nostalgic effects taking their toll on me when warmth slips between my fingers, encompassing my hand like rays of gentle sunlight over the earth on a fresh spring morning. It's like connecting the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The sensation sends tingles down my spine to settle in my empty stomach.

Although aching, my heart gains speed, and I don't have to put my hand on my chest to feel it out of control as it rams against my ribcage, keeping in tune with the butterflies awakening from the damn tingling in my abdomen. And I think the heart monitor next to my bed is broken, because it just keeps getting louder, and louder, and fucking louder as the intervals between beeps grow shorter.

"Hey! Shinra!" a voice that has only lived in my head over these long months calls out.

Within seconds, I feel that hand slip away all too soon. In protest to this loss, I hear myself whimper. A dream? Fucking no… I was… I was…

"Ah! How long has his heart rate been this high?" I hear the doctor ask in a frenzied tone, but I do not look beyond my lidded eyes for fear of finding disappointment.

"It just shot up! I didn't do anything!" arguing ensues.

"Did you touch him?"

"W-well, yeah…"

Guilt…?

"I told you not to touch him."

"Why not? He's… He was-"

"I shouldn't even let you be here!" Shinra suddenly snaps, "I told you he can't handle surprises right now. And this… You did this."

* * *

_So, I'll go sit on the floor wearing your clothes,_  
_All that I know is I don't know, how to be something you miss._  
_Never thought we'd have a last kiss_  
_Never imagined we'd end like this_  
_Your name forever the name on my lips,_  
_Just like our last kiss,_  
_Forever the name on my lips,_  
_Forever the name on my lips._

_Just like our last_

* * *

This dream turns to a nightmare as slow burning tears build up behind my eyes. I don't care whose fault it is. I don't care whose to blame. Blame never solved a problem. For a moment, I feel like something has popped in my chest. Maybe my heart. Maybe it has finally exploded from these constant rushes of anxiety. So I can't help it when my muscles control themselves, I tense, and begin to cough.

A hand presses against my chest, rubbing hard over my heart. I swear it's trying to get away from me… trying to break out and run away. I don't blame it after all of the hurt we've gone through together. I'd want to get away too.

Still feeling significant weight pulling at my eyelids, I pry them open as far as they're willing to go, where I discover two hazy figures towering over me. They look like oil paints.

"Relax, Izaya," I hear Shinra say.

He is still taking on this tone as if a bitter taste is on his tongue. I sense that this hand belongs to him, and is in no way a match to the one I found in my dreams. Soon enough, the length between beeps widens again.

"Better…" He slowly backs away. "He should stay like this for a couple hours now. A little foggy at most… but coherent"

"So… I can…" a hesitant question begins, only to be left incomplete.

"Go ahead."

In a strange sense, I feel like a tranquilized animal. I know this is real. I know this is happening to me, but I am powerless to do anything about it. And I feel watched by curious eyes, like I'm in a zoo for the world to see.

That warm grip returns to take my hand in its protective grasp.

"I hate these dreams…" I mutter aloud, noticing how much easier it is to breathe now.

"What dreams?"

"Those… that trick me into believing you're here."

"What happens when it's not a trick?"

"Then I've finally cracked."

"Is that what you think, Izaya? That I'm just a dream based off of your insanity?"

"Ha…" a lucid smile breaks free. "What else would you be?"

"Here."

"Prove it," I smirk, knowing that when I wake up from this I'll have to kill myself.

"Open your eyes."

Feeling a presence block out the surrounding light, a sensation like feathers drags across my forehead. My breath catches in my throat. This dream has lips and he's pressing them against my temple, summoning desperate tears from my own eyes.

Doing my best to keep them at bay, my eyes stay closed as I blindly reach for the collar of his shirt. My literally broken heart is absolutely losing it.

I let out a rather weak and pathetic cry, clumsily wrapping my arms around his shoulders. Scooping his arms underneath me, he lifts me from the mattress. I'm at a complete loss. It's all I can do to tighten my frail hold.

Before I know it, I'm a sniveling mess, sobbing into his shoulder as the lucidity from the drugs is overpowered by my typhoon of emotions. Absorbing his warmth, I nuzzle into him as far as I can, begging whatever powers that may be to never take this away. My body is trembling from an inglorious mixture of panic, pain, and love.

"Easy…" he coos, holding me close. "I'm here. It's okay. I'm here."

I melt under his touch as his fingers find my hair, ignoring the sharp pain in my chest to focus on his touch.

"I miss you so fucking much," I needlessly confess.

"I know… I'm sorry," he sighs, "I'm so sorry."

As if he's handling fine china, he lays me down, ignoring my protest to keep holding on. Opening my tear-filled eyes, I stare at him, lost to find that he is crying too. He wipes his tears away and runs his hands through his disheveled blond hair. Heavy bags hang beneath his metallic eyes.

A shiver runs through my spine. I miss his touch already. It simply isn't enough to have him by my side. I need him so much more than that.

Reading my mind in a way that only he can, he retakes me into his arms, climbing into the hospital bed with me. His arm snakes around my shoulders, and I rest my head over his heart, listening to its unique beat. This is my favorite song.

For the longest time, we are silent. In the back of my mind, I tell myself over and over not to wake up. Not a word is spoken between us. Even Shinra, who stepped in for a moment to change my IV bag, has not opened his chatty mouth. But I can see his quieted opinions in his eyes. He is trapped somewhere between anger and awe.

"Have you come back for me?" I begin a stream of inevitable questions.

"Yes."

"Are you going to leave me again?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me."

"Izaya… I'm not lying…"

"Do you love me…?"

"More than I can put into words."

"Then why did you go?"

He sighs. "Because… I'm a blind fucking moron who couldn't see what I was losing until I nearly lost you for good."

"It's only cardiomyopathy…" I breathe, rubbing my hand over my chest to nullify the discomforting burn.

"I never wanted to break your heart… This isn't what was supposed to happen."

I frown, feeling incredibly nervous. What _was_ supposed to happen?

"I love you so much…" his voice quivers, and he pulls me closer. "And I tried so hard to let you go, even though I was the one leaving…"

"Why…?"

"Because I'm not good enough for you. I thought if I left, you'd find someone who is. That way you wouldn't have to deal with my baggage."

"Idiot. You're the only one for me."

I can see him swallowing his pride with every word of his confession. He sees the error in his ways, regretting them more than he feels he can atone for. But unrequited love never asked for atonement.

All I wanted was for you to return to me. You've done that. You're here.

"I tried so hard not to come back… I tried to act like I still hated you… I tried not to care. But yesterday…"

"Y-yesterday…?"

"Shinra said he's had you sedated to keep your heart rate down. Don't you remember? You've been asleep for a good twenty-four hours."

I shake my head a little. "No…"

"When he called, and told me what happened, I took the first flight I could get… Screw California… I'm here to take care of you."

"I… I don't know what to say…"

"Shinra doesn't think I should be here," he jeers. "I told him to fuck off, cause I'm not leaving you again. Ever."

"Shinra is a jerk."

Another sigh. "I can't say I blame him…"

"What?"

"You're sick because of me, Izaya… You have every right to hate me."

Hate…? Him…? Ten years ago, maybe. Now? Never.

"You're an idiot," I tell him again, "I could never hate you."

Snuggling into him, I spend the next twenty minutes quietly listening to nothing but the sound of his breathing in rhythm with his heartbeat. I thought I would never hear this sound again, and now that I am, I never want to stop listening. It reminds me of the sea, with tides ebbing and flowing against a peaceful shore. I'm getting sleepy from this lullaby…

"I want to go home… with you…" I mumble, mesmerized by his fingers in my hair.

It's the most soothing sensation in the world… to feel these innocent, light ministrations, gently pushing away downer thoughts.

"I know, Izaya… I want to go home with you too," he answers.

"Will you take me…?"

"As soon as you're well enough. I'll take you anywhere you wanna go."

I yawn, barely able to recognize my surroundings through tired eyes. The world is a clouded blur. My head feels light.

"You should sleep," he suggests, lightly chuckling at my fruitless fight for consciousness.

"I don't want to."

"You need to rest."

"I need you, Shizuo."

Fingers cease twirling. I hear the hypnotic rhythm of his heart skip a beat as incredulous saffron eyes fall on me.

"Something wrong?" I wonder, making myself more comfortable on his chest.

"No…" he shakes away the stun, coming up with a pretty clever cover when it doesn't completely dissipate, "N-nothing… I- I just realized how much I missed you."

But I know.

The sound of his given name in my own voice is astounding, even for me. The actual words have not strayed from my lips since he left me for the illusion of a better life, as if I had been trying to erase him from my universe by way of avoidance. But I would be a damn fool if I said Heiwajima Shizuo was not incessantly on my mind.

"If I go to sleep… you'll still be here when I wake up, won't you, Shizu-chan?"

The gravity of his nickname falls on him immediately. He sighs, trying to be happy for an epithet he was hoping had gone forgotten. Silently giggling to myself, he doesn't know that the title is special. A call that makes him mine.

"I'll be right here," he assures me.

Nuzzling as close to his warmth as possible, I give up the fight to keep my heavy eyelids open, and my mind alert. Feeling whole once more, I sink into his security, knowing I'll never be alone again… knowing without a doubt that Shizuo is in my life to stay - to love me fully; uninhibited by time nor distance.

* * *

**And thanks to those of you who read on the kinkmeme. I planned to give this a very sad ending until you said you'd die.**


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